The Harvest

 

The Harvest

Harvest days are upon us,

the windmill picks up the breeze,

grinds the crop into flour,

with added tidbits of cheese.

On edge of golden wheat fields,

at sunrise in the fair east,

ovens launch the scent of bread,

millers prepare for the feast.

Airflow covers the meadow,

aroma’s flow all around,

builds the growing excitement,

that’s gathered inside the town.

Village in preparation,

songs are sung in the shire,

dances prepared for the harvest,

wicker is weaved for the fire.

They gather on the fairgrounds,

priestess and circle of clans,

bring forth their wishes and prayers,

attached to the wicker man.

Archers with flaming arrows,

their aim let loose and precise,

begin the celebration,

in prayer with their sacrifice.

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